Crazy Girl(22)

“Courtney!” I huffed as I tossed the napkins at her. This only caused her to laugh as she collected them and dabbed at her face and neck.

“Grown-ass men, I swear.”

“You were encouraging it,” I quipped before taking the last gulp of my beer.

She motioned her hand like she had a penis and was masturbating. “Bunch of jerk-offs.” I choked as I brought her hand down and laughed hard. We were, hands down, the classiest broads in the place.

Eventually, after too many beers and too many gawking men, we decided we’d had enough and needed to take an Uber back to my house and crash. When I pulled my phone out to order the ride, I saw the notification to his text.

Wren’s text.

It had been three hours since he’d sent it.

I couldn’t read it. I was drunk so that didn’t help any. And, admittedly, I was scared to read it.

Handing the phone to Courtney, I drunkenly mumbled, “He texted me. Read it to me.”

She squinted one eye, as if she couldn’t see me even though I was only a foot away, her lip curling in a sneer as she took the phone. “Of course he did,” she slurred. Then raising her hand that held the phone, she shouted, “He texted her! I knew he would! Look at her, she’s gorgeous.”

The guys at the table next to us lifted their pints and made some shouting sounds in agreement. If you couldn’t beat them, join them, right? Raising a hand, I waved, and turned my head from side to side, batting my lashes like I was a beauty queen riding on a parade float. These guys probably weren’t checking us out as much as they were laughing at us. We’d stepped over the line of ridiculous about three beers prior. Courtney and I were in the zone—our zone of crazy, drunken debauchery.

Staring at my cell screen, her brows lifted and she tilted her head as if she were impressed by what he’d texted.

“What?” I asked anxiously as I smacked a heavy hand on her thigh to get her attention.

She rocked a little, side to side, as she met my stare. “I’ll be damned. He wants a do-over.”

I scowled and snorted. “Pfft. A do-over?”

Tossing my phone in front of me, she shrugged. “That’s right. A do-over,” she confirmed.

Was he serious? I half wondered if he was just making fun of me.

“You’re drunk,” she pointed out.

I placed a hand to my chest in mock offense. “Moi? Nooooo. I’m as sober as a judge,” I replied in my deepest Southern falsetto, which wasn’t hard considering I had a bit of twang in my accent to begin with.

“You can’t text him back when you’re drunk.”

“Yeah,” I said assertively. “No drunk texting. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“You’re right,” she agreed. “He doesn’t. Your random drunken babble should be saved for only the people you really love.”

“Yeah!” I yelled enthusiastically.

“Yeah,” she mimicked me as she pounded her fist on the table. Then, with thoughtfulness in her tone, she added, “But we should definitely give Kate and Deanna a call on the way home. They deserve a good drunk dial.”

“Agreed. One more beer and we’ll go.”

We were the worst drunks together. Neither of us could say no to the other. “Let’s do it.”

And that was the last thing I remembered.

Until the next morning when my phone chimed, waking me.

My body felt like weighted lead. I didn’t want to move. Why couldn’t my mattress absorb me, make me part of it? Reaching for my phone on my nightstand, I wondered how I got to bed the night before. And what happened to Courtney? Did we Uber home? I had to find her and make sure she got home okay.

I unlocked the screen to read the text when my foot hit something warm. Shit! It was a leg. I jerked up, my heart lurching in my chest. Someone was in the bed with me, a pillow covering their head, and I had no idea who it was.

“Shit,” I whispered. Had I had a one-night stand? There were those guys at the other table that kept looking at us all night. Oh my god. No. I’d never done the drunken one-night stand bit before.

“Water,” the person mumbled, and my body relaxed when I realized who it was.

Courtney.

“You nearly just gave me a heart attack,” I hissed as I gave her ass a hard smack.

“Ouch,” she whined. “Water.”

“Does your husband know you’re here?” I queried.

“Yes, you called him and asked if we could have a sleepover.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Maybe didn’t ask as much as you told him we were.”

I tilted my head, wondering how that went over. I’m sure he didn’t like that. “You think he’s mad at me?”

“Nah. He’s going on a fishing trip next week for three days, which you pointed out after telling him I was staying over. So he owed me one.”

My mouth was dry and tasted horrible. I needed water, too. “Why?” I asked no one in particular, raising my head to the ceiling, my tone laced with agony. “Why did we drink so much?” Like the universe was at fault.

“Because we hate ourselves,” Courtney mumbled from under a pillow.

I chuckled. It took all of my strength, but I made it downstairs and grabbed us two bottled waters and some Ibuprofen before dragging my tired body back upstairs. We both sat on the bed, gulping water when I realized I hadn’t checked my phone from when it chimed earlier.